


Fashion Goggles: A BELLO Affair

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Actors, Character Study, Fantasy Sex, Fantasy vs. Reality, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Modeling, Objectification, Oblivious Colin, Perception, Photo Shoots, Pining, Slice of Life, magazine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7150847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colin doesn't think of Bradley like that. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion Goggles: A BELLO Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for livejournal's [Merlin RPF](http://merlinrpf.livejournal.com/) Promptacular Fest of 2016. Based on the prompt: Colin sees the pictures of Bradley in _Bello_ Magazine.
> 
>  **Disclaimer and Notes:** This is a work of fiction, AKA: Lies, lies, lies except for the fact that said pictures do exist. They appear in the March 2016 Entertainment Issue (#109) of [Bello](http://www.bellomag.com/) Magazine. Low-res scans for reference purposes may be viewed [here](http://merlincastnews.livejournal.com/47450.html) and many other places online, but please note that these do not always appear in page order.

**Summer 2016**

"…up with you tonight? Earth to Colin, hello?"

"Hm?" Caught staring, Colin blinks and grabs up his glass. He takes a long swallow, not tasting the gin so much as the burn of it under the bitter wash of quinine.

"Do I have something on my face?" 

Colin shrugs, waggling a finger in the general direction of Bradley's eyes, nose, mouth. "A few things, yeah. Nothing fatal." 

Bradley snorts. "Anything that doesn't _belong,_ wise guy. Salad in my teeth?" He flashes a half-hearted chimp grin.

"Nah. You're dead on. Just…" Colin makes a vague gesture with the same hand, as if it'll explain everything that's led up to this awkward moment – him squirming on the hard pub bench, gawping at his friend, floundering in guilt and longing – and tries to recall what Bradley was just talking about. Noticing that both their glasses are near empty, he says, "Could you face another?"

"Perhaps." Bradley shunts his pint aside without finishing it and settles his forearms on the table, all business now, and Colin knows he's not letting it go. "Just _what_? You've been twitchy all day, mate. What gives, what's on your mind?"

Colin downs the rest of his G&T, stalling, squinting at Bradley through the bottom of the glass and trying to fool his brain into seeing a face only a mother could love, or at least one that he'd never in a lifetime consider kissing, but it's no use. Even with the frowny forehead lines, intimidating tan, and sporty short-back-and-sides, Bradley's as untouchably bloody gorgeous as he is distressingly familiar, and Colin can’t shake the spell he's been under these past few months.

He bangs the rubbish glass down on the table. "Right," he says. Looking around, he notes the growing crush of bodies at the bar. They'd nipped in to one of the back booths just before five, but the after work crowd have been trickling in ever since. It won't be long until they'll be effectively trapped, having to shout to be heard, which is not on. "Not here though." 

The frowny lines deepen into a proper worried expression as Bradley leans in. "Colin? You all right there?"

"Aye. It's only…" Then, because he's always been a bit of a pushover when it comes to Bradley's frowny forehead lines and concerned muppet face – as well as a lightweight when it comes to gin – he leans in as well, hand hovering over Bradley's wrist for a moment before giving it an awkward pat and a squeeze, confessing, "Thing is, big man, I think you finally broke Katie's metaphor. For me. Totally banjaxed."

"What?"

"The vaccine thing…" While the gin may be doing a number on his better judgement and personal boundaries, Colin's eyesight is just fine. He sees the exact moment Bradley remembers, the storm of confusion giving way to a startled, bemused expression before he regains his composure. 

"Oh?" He looks Colin dead in the eyes, arches an eyebrow. "And how'd I manage that?"

Colin withdraws his hand and looks away, muttering, "Long story."

"I've got time." 

There's an edge to the words that Colin doesn’t like, a faint bitterness. It gives him the courage to meet Bradley's gaze and raise an eyebrow in return, saying, "Come back to mine?" 

He doesn't know how long they sit there, facing off across a slab of sticky, ring-stained oak – long enough to work up a mild panic, to be forced to remind himself there's plenty of oxygen left in the pub so long as he remembers to actually breathe it in, all while Bradley's just sat there staring at him with the oddest expression.

"Not like… Ah, ferfeckssake! I just made it weirder, didn't I? Sorry. I only meant for a quiet ch– "

Bradley interrupts with a gesture, waving off the apology before downing the last of his pint. He stands, collects both their jackets from the pegs and offers Colin's to him with a searching look, then a faint smile.

"Lead on," he says.

* * *

**Spring 2016**

He sees them purely by chance. The first time, that is. Half-past five on a Wednesday evening and Colin's clinging to a pole, knackered from a long afternoon of meetings and ADR, stewing in the special hell that is riding the tube during peak hours. 

There's a woman sat before him, City-chic pantsuit and a floral headscarf, half hunched over the tablet in her lap. She's completely engrossed by whatever she's reading, or at least doing a good job faking it – brow furrowed, lips pursed, steadily right-swiping with one slim finger – so he feels safe. Feels drawn to her, even, recognising something of himself in her posture: the desire to go unnoticed, unmolested.

The train shudders to a halt and more people pour in than out, wedging themselves into crannies he'd swear weren't there a moment ago. He shifts over, sliding his hand higher up the pole to make room for newcomers. She doesn't look up, doesn't appear to notice the crush. 

Once they're moving again he sneaks a closer look at her tablet, wondering where she's escaped to, what's sustaining her calm while he's battling crowd anxiety and a rising irritation with the owner of the messenger bag that keeps bashing his hip. 

He smiles when he sees, tucking his face into his shoulder. It's some digital mag, the lifestyle and fashion sort: image heavy with plenty of male eye-candy. He's perversely tickled that it's this, something flash and fun, that's got her looking so serious. He gives her a mental tip of the hat for surprising him, reconsidering, wondering if perhaps this is work-related.

As he watches, she reaches the end – her repeated right-swipe only bouncing the final page against the edge of the screen – then starts furiously left-swiping back through the contents. He gets sucked into the smear of pale buildings and blue skies, cocktails and club lights, posh food, summer suits, and men with come-hither eyes. 

She pauses on a neon-green car, then slowly scrolls through a series of shots of some brooding Italian type, boxer's hands and trousers up to his navel, oozing old world masculinity but scrubbed up, softened round the edges, repackaged for a new generation. 

He's craning his neck, trying to read the text upside down, thinking the model's a ringer for a poor man's Tom Hardy, when the woman swipes him away, and now Colin's looking at a nouveau James Dean: biker-jacketed bad boy meets the boy next door; still black and white and unreachable, but with floppier hair, dragging on a milkshake instead of a cigarette. 

The woman lingers on the image though, so Colin does too, giving it a second look. This model is lounging with a knee up at a round patio table, dark jacket and trousers snugged tight to a sturdy frame, wrists and ankle exposed. Sunlight's glinting off his black aviators and white skin. 

The longer Colin stares, the more he is blinded. There's something about those vulnerable wrists, those hands, that swath of bare ankle in contrast to the rest of the wrapped package that has him on edge, dry-mouthed and nervy with desire. 

He shifts his weight, unsettled. He's got urges, sure, but it's been years since he felt this sort of instant, inconvenient attraction: lust tinged with unease, the discomfort of not being in control of his own body.

He's so flustered, caught up in a panic over his reaction – he's on the bloody _tube,_ surely way, way up there on the list of places never to get an erection – that he misses the moment she finally swipes the picture aside. And it's not until she's scrolled a few pages on – the images in colour now, the model stripped of his aviators and squinting at the camera – that Colin's brain catches up, going dead calm before screaming at him that those wrists and hands, that face, that gleaming ankle, they belong to… 

That Colin _knows_ them. That he's looking at pictures of…

That that's not a model at all, but bloody _Bradley._

Colin lets go and staggers towards the nearest door, muttering apologies. He pushes his way off at the next station and paces down the platform, away from the stairs, needing to move and craving a bit of space. 

He tells himself he's fine, he's grand; he can hop on the next train, no harm done, and not think about what's just happened until he's safe back in the privacy of his flat.

A few minutes later, however, the platform's steadily filling up again and he's exposed in his own lie. His face feels hot, his palms sweaty. There's not enough oxygen, let alone space, and the thought of squeezing back onto a carriage with all these people like so many pilchards in a tin is unbearable. Head down, he heads for the stairs and touches out, sucks in the polluted air like it's a sea breeze.

* * *

It takes him nearly an hour to reach his flat on foot. If he was knackered before, he's a zombie by the time he collapses on the sofa. Still, there's only one image he sees when he closes his eyes; it's been plaguing him during the walk home, taunting him, posing questions with no good answers.

And he can deny it all he wants – can punch the cushions, swear, turn his music up loud as he dares without headphones – but he knows that there are only two ways he's getting past this tonight. The first involves ringing Bradley in LA and having what's sure to be an incredibly awkward conversation. As for the second…

Colin slides a hand down and rests it on his stomach, fingertips just nudging below his waistband. He tells himself he's too exhausted for this, but it doesn't stop the tide of arousal, sweeping in full force after being held at bay. It's like his cock knows that, any moment now, his hand is going in his pants. Maybe both hands. That he's going to grit his teeth and find the gift in this, going to rub one off shamefaced and sloppy like he's fourteen and just got his hands on the old _Blueboy_ Cliodhna Mc-Something-or-Other found in her uncle's shed. 

That he's going to think of that mouth, those wrists, those hands as belonging to a stranger, one who'll throw him up against a wall or bend him over that table; going to imagine whatever he pleases beneath those sharp new clothes – whatever sort of heart beneath that blinding skin – like he's got no fecking clue, like Bradley's just some nameless fantasy and not a real flesh-and-blood man that he knows.

* * *

If it were anyone else, Colin wouldn't feel so guilty, nor worry overmuch. Even if he'd found himself wanking over a friend's brother or an old hate crush, in time he'd be able to write it off as an unexpected, anomalous bit of fun, like that weekend in Paris when he'd lost a bet to Angel and let her doll him up and drag him out clubbing in the Marais. As terrifying as it had been exciting, but ultimately a harmless one-off. No pics, no names, no repeats. Nothing beyond forgiveness, and no real consequences. But because it is Bradley…

Bradley always has consequences. 

So while Colin tells himself there'll be no second time – that he won't look go looking for the source, won't mention it to Bradley, doesn't want to see the rest of the spread – there's a sly, somewhat mocking voice in his head whispering there will be, of course there will, and there's no harm in looking, right?

He bans himself from deliberate googling, fashion and entertainment magazines, and eavesdropping on the tube – no real hardship, to be honest – and while he's too chicken to ring Bradley lest he blurt out a confession, he forces himself to send the usual brief emails and texts.

Then comes an evening in early April, Colin recently back from his trip to New York and having been out for a drink with friends. He's wetting the tea and sorting his post, lonely in that itchy, idle way that creeps up on him after hours of watching people pair off for the night. He spies a flat package from the States and his mood lifts when he spots the postmark. Flipping it over, he finds a quote inked across the flap in Bradley's familiar plump, curling script: _"We are the goon squad…beep beep!"_

He tears it open, expecting WonderCon swag or another instalment of Bradley's occasional tongue-in-cheek doodle comic, "English Actor Man's Excellent Hollywood Adventures"; what he finds is a glossy magazine with a note taped to the cover:

> _After all the grief I've given you over your shoots, I figure some turnabout is long overdue. So have at me, good sir, and don't be gentle in your mockery. My mum's already read me for the vest, joggers, and terrible posture – my "smug lounging" she calls it. I tried telling her that's what's in fashion, but… (You may now gleefully imagine me being whacked round the head with a cushion from across the pond.)_
> 
> _All best,_
> 
> _BJ_
> 
> _P.S. Kindly ignore the truly handsome devil on the cover below – he's not for you, trust me, it'll only end in tears, definitely his, though I know you don't mean to be cruel – and remember my spies are everywhere, so I will hear about it if any of these wind up on local dartboards._

Colin reads the note through twice before tearing it off, anticipatory pleasure souring to unease as he realises exactly what he's holding in his hands.

 _BELLO,_ the magazine is called. Issue 109. Fit Come-Hither Eyes is leaning in on the cover with his legs spread wide – another actor, an Italian name Colin vaguely recognises – but down in one corner, framed by the bloke's crotch Colin sees: _\+ BRADLEY JAMES_. He sets the note on the table and the magazine beside it, one thumb worrying that corner, not quite able to let it go. 

He remembers the merciless teasing he and Katie endured on set over that spread in _The Lady_ and gibing texts over the _Hunger_ shoots and wonders if they could have had another meaning. 

And even further back, during their first year of filming: Bradley finding copies of his old modelling shots and sticking them up in makeup or on Colin's door, grinning like the Cheshire cat, prancing around at arse o'clock in the morning singing snatches of "I'm Too Sexy" and "Fashion."

Colin can hear his Bowie voice even now – the wrap party karaoke one, not Arthur-as-Jareth – and can almost feel the weight of Bradley's hands on his shoulders, grabbing him and propelling him round under the canvas and fairy lights. 

"Fashion!  
Turn to the left  
Fashion!  
Turn to the right  
Oooh, fashion!  
We are the goon squad and we're coming to town  
Beep beep! Beep beep!"

He tells himself he doesn’t have to look, that he can always bin the mag for his own sanity and ad lib some appropriate insults sure to make Bradley laugh; he's got years of practice, after all. Years of practice at…what, exactly? Banter? Flirting? Self-preservation?

He closes his eyes to better remember the shiver of beer breath across his ear, Bradley's voice rough from all his earlier shouting and singing. There'd been a slight edge beneath the fun, the feeling that Colin had missed a cue somewhere, dropped a line, and was being scolded for it.

"Listen to me - don't listen to me  
Talk to me - don't talk to me  
Dance with me - don't dance with me, no  
Beep beep! Beep beep!"

Is it betraying their friendship, he wonders, if it was founded in part on always feeling like it might have been more?

In the end, Colin compromises. He takes his cuppa and walks away for the night, citing dangerous levels of fond nostalgia and the lingering effects of the gin he'd drunk earlier. He promises himself that in the morning he'll have a quick skim, then the magazine will go straight into a recycling bin. He won’t keep it, and he definitely won't wank over it, because now that he knows it's Bradley in those images – that Bradley _knows_ he knows it's Bradley, has put down good money ensuring that he see them – Bradley will be all that he sees, and Colin doesn’t think of Bradley like that. 

Right?

* * *

It's not that Colin doesn't find Bradley attractive. He does – he _did,_ right from the start, even when he didn’t particularly like the man – but attractive people are hardly a rarity in his chosen line of work.

Then, by the time he'd properly warmed to Bradley, Colin had had enough of a taste of what it meant to work with someone day in, day out. He'd projected that out, not just weeks or months, but bloody years: living on top of one another, sharing all their best and worst moments whether they liked it or not. 

The work demanded heavy collaboration, physical intimacy and almost frightening levels of trust, a rare combination he'd had yet to experience with a romantic partner, but had very much hoped to do justice to as an actor, so he'd written off anything more as a non-starter. Besides, he'd had no clue as to Bradley's sexuality and, because he was raised with manners – because of where he was raised – hadn't planned on asking.

The friendship they'd forged had been dense: complex, often inscrutable to or misinterpreted by outsiders, but enduring. And over the years Colin had got so used to Bradley, accustomed to his presence, attuned to his moods, fluent in expressions and gestures – so used to being there with him in the moment, whether on set or off, to looking _with_ him at other things, other people – that he'd stopped seeing Bradley himself.

"The dread mask of the familiar," as Richard had once teased. Or, as Katie calls it, the "acting vaccine," immunity to desire for the people one is surrounded by, no matter how beautiful or talented; unable to properly objectify them, not even in idle fantasy, as they've become like family. Beloved. Frustrating. Too well-known and complicated to wank over, let alone screw.

However, as Colin discovers mere moments after cracking open _BELLO,_ Issue 109, either Katie's full of pigshite, the vaccine's worn off, or there is something very wrong with his libido. Because he's looking at Bradley, seeing through the clothes, poses and styling; knowing instinctively which are truly _Bradley_ and which aren't; practically seeing speech bubbles of what's running through Bradley's mind in each shot – knowing whether he's amused, bored, self-conscious or all swagger, enjoying playing the part – yet still finds himself insanely turned on. 

Hell, he's _more_ turned on by this hybrid know-I-look-damn-good-but-would-never-wear-these-trousers-to-a-burger-joint-in-a-million-years Bradley than his previous vision of a nouveau James Dean, and as for sun-dappled-launderette-sex-god Bradley and photographer-told-me-to-act-natural-but-fiddle-about-with-my-hair-wtf-am-I-doing Bradley… 

Let it simply be said that there are a lot of things about pages 14-19 that do Colin's head in, for a variety of reasons.

* * *

Colin tries, several times throughout the day, but can't bring himself to bin it. Later that night, he gives in to a fantasy involving crawling between a pair of pale high tops – black laces on the left, white on the right, the dork – yanking a new pair of joggers down, placing his hands on sun-warmed thighs, and laying his head down between them. Nuzzling, teasing until he feels a hand creep into his hair and demand something more; sucking cock to the sounds of wrecked breathing and the steady ba-dump-thump-thudding of industrial tumble dryers.

After, he rolls over and clutches a pillow, hugging it to his chest until his pulse returns to normal. He waits for the same to happen to his brain, but the fantasy doesn't subside so much as slide over into a virtual morning after; he feels an ache thinking of the stubborn, guarded loneliness staring out at him from that launderette window and the exposure of a softly-furred armpit, of those expressive hands crumpled, curled, or hidden away in pockets, so much more muted than they are in real life.

He recalls the whirlwind of them, the menace as well as the generosity: Bradley cornering him during a break at an early table read, offering him water and sweets from his stash as if there weren't a whole craft services spread at the other end of the room, clapping him on the shoulder, saying, "So, now we've met Arthur and Merlin, what about you? Who _is_ Mister Colin Morgan, hm? Does he fancy grabbing a pint when we're through?"

He remembers Bradley giving him the once-over, openly staring the first time he'd seen Colin in a tie and something tailored, saying, "Well look at you in your big boy suit." Then leaning in, offering his arm with a murmured, "No, seriously. You scrub up nicely. May I?"

He remembers being reeled in and hugged by a sweaty Bradley in pit-stained T-shirts; Bradley plucking lint off Colin's fleece and tousling his hair; Bradley tearing bits of orange peel into shapes and chucking them at him out of boredom; Bradley constantly messing with his stuff, moving his shoes and borrowing books only to annotate them with ridiculous doodles.

Yet still, the attraction remains. 

"What's happening?" Colin whispers miserably, but his pillow doesn’t answer. He stashes the magazine under his mattress, vowing to ring Bradley soon, before things get any weirder. He'll tell him he's got a face like the hind end of a boar and sweetly ask for the Italian's number, figuring that ought to jar him back to their usual routine.

Instead, they wind up chatting and laughing for a quarter of an hour – Colin methodically mashing chickpeas to a fine paste with the tines of his fork to curb his panic – and making tentative plans to meet up in London in June, maybe catch a play before Bradley heads to France. 

He spends the rest of the spring rushing from one gig to the next – interviews, photo shoots, meetings, rehearsals, filming _Humans_ – trying not to think too hard about why he still hasn't got rid of the magazine. Nor why, whenever photographers prompt him to be a bit flirty these days, to laugh or simper or think of someone special sat behind the camera, there's only one face that comes to mind.

* * *

**Summer 2016**

"…creep, but there it is and if there's something to be done to cure me, I haven't found it, you know what I mean like?" Colin pauses in his pacing to look over at the sofa, where Bradley's still sat with his arms crossed, head inclined towards the old steamer trunk that serves as a coffee table. There's two untouched cups of tea on it, one on either side of what Colin now thinks of as his own personal copy of _Yes I'm Going to a Special Hell_ magazine.

It's the mag that holds Bradley's attention, has done since Colin smacked it down and launched into his rambling confession. He's got that odd, intent look about him, lips mashed together in a way that could mean anything from deep thought to displeasure to holding back an inconvenient burp or smile. Colin wonders if he sees some tell-tale wear, can tell where Colin's been keeping it, and feels himself going red. He resumes pacing.

"Ahferfeckssake, Bradley, say something, please."

Bradley lifts his head, slowly shaking it. "I'm not buying it."

"What?"

"The metaphor thing. Vaccines come in a jab, all at once." He looks over, searching Colin out, following his progress back and forth like he's at a tennis match. "Maybe a booster later on. Colin, _stop_. Come sit down. What Katie was talking about was…I don’t know, something else. Familiarity breeding contempt, maybe. Or perhaps – " Bradley heaves himself off the sofa and puts himself directly Colin's path. " – it's just a handy brushoff for when things get too intense with a colleague? An excuse, if you will?"

"Ehmmm…" Colin stops in his tracks and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He could have sworn they'd all agreed with her, had a right laugh about the thought of any of the core cast hooking up.

Bradley closes the distance between them, arms lifting, and for a mad moment Colin thinks he's about to get lamped across the jaw. He jerks his hands out of his pockets and takes step back.

"Steady on." Bradley pauses, holding his hands up. Then, softly, he adds, "May I touch you?"

Colin's nodding before he's thought through how odd the question seems; it's not one Bradley's ever asked before. "But I swear, I really didn't think of you like that. I never – " 

He breaks off as Bradley's hands land on his shoulders and he's hit with the scent of him. It's terrifying how his body remembers, relaxing despite his agitation, giving a pleased shiver.

"Colin." Bradley's peering at him. 

"Aye?"

"I hate to break it to you, but enjoying someone's company, valuing their friendship, and finding them attractive to the point of having sexual fantasies about them is not _typically_ thought of as an illness. It means you're keen."

Colin shakes his head, undone by the rising smile in Bradley's eyes, the warmth of his hands. He doesn’t want this kindness right now, would have preferred taking a punch. "Amn't."

"Are too. But it's nothing you need apologise for. Believe me, it happens all the time."

"Tch! Did that head actually fit through my wee door?"

"Not to _me,_ genius." Bradley gives him a little shake, a wry smile. "To mates, colleagues, people in general. And despite Katie's nonsense, actors fancy each other all the bloody time. Date, shag – get married on the sly and flog the pics to the highest bidder before divorcing six months later – Colin, you _know_ this. Why're you being so weird and stubborn about it?"

"I do not want to marry then divorce you, Bradley, with or without the paps." 

"Then what about kissing me right now?"

"What?! Why would you…I don't think…"

Bradley grins. "Oh, so it's all right to go around with your whole bro-hug 'love you, big man, safe home' routine but you can't admit you want in my pants? I asked you a simple question: Do you want to kiss me right now? Truth."

Colin gawps at him, not sure whether he's being chastised or set up. But the truth's the same either way. "Aye," he admits, bracing for Bradley to nod, then release him.

" 'Aye' he says." Bradley mimics his accent, gripping Colin's shoulders, then sliding his hands in a bit – not letting go. Colin feels restless thumbs scuffing against the yoke of his shirt before sneaking onto bare skin. Then, in his own voice, Bradley says, "And what about the first time we met?"

"Only a wee bit. Mainly I wanted you to…" Colin swallows, frozen by the feather-light touches on his neck; they're miles away from his rougher fantasies, but they're making him break out in goose flesh, making his cock stir and his palms itch. "Ehm, never mind. Point is – "

"Point _is_ ," Bradley cuts in, bringing a hand to Colin's face and looming in, gently tilting his head this way and that, studying his mouth like it's some sort of puzzle, "it seems like we're finally on the same page. More or less. Any objection to proceeding?"

"Well, you're replacing one so-called crap metaphor with another, but that's more of an observation."

Bradley snorts, pressing in closer. He captures one of Colin's flailing hands and places it on his hip, slides the hand on Colin's cheek round the back of his neck – clearly reeling him in, intent on bringing their lips together, but Colin can't stop babbling. Can't believe this is happening.

"My only _objection_ would be if I'm virtual-reality dreaming this _Notes from a Coma_ style while the entire world is watching, and you're really a sex robot, and I'm really a human vegetable on a prison ship docked in Killary Harbour, because that would be unacceptable."

"You are _so_ odd, Colin, I swear." Bradley nuzzles at his ear, brushes his lip along the shell of it. "No wonder Mazzara and his minions never fazed me."

"I…" Colin takes deep breath, thinking of that lonely, obstinate face at the launderette window. "I'm sorry that didn’t work out," he whispers. He feels Bradley shrug, then warm lips trail kisses down his neck.

"Me too, but not sorry to be home for a bit." Bradley rears up suddenly, planting a sound smack on his cheek, saying, "Not sorry to be here with you now that you've come to your senses, finally admitted you worship the Brad Bod."

Colin recoils, shaking his head. "Tch! No. _Never_ , Bradley. Never say those two words to me again."

"What, Brad B– _ow!_ Why Morgan, you vicious little nipple-pincher, am I going to need a safeword here?"

Their first proper kiss is ruined by a great deal of shoving and helpless laughter. Or perhaps it's enhanced. It's all, as Colin's fast realising, a matter of perception. 

"Up to you, big man. But in keeping with the new metaphor," he says, jerking his head towards the bedroom, "here's me saying we've a lot of catch-up reading to do, if you'd care to get stuck in?"

Bradley chuckles, then spins him around, crowding in close and hugging him from behind.

"Lead on."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> ~The song lyrics quoted are from "Fashion" by David Bowie off the 1980 album _Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)_
> 
> ~The book Colin mentions, _Notes from a Coma_ is a novel by Irish author Mike McCormack (and does not have sex robots in it as far as I recall; that's Colin's special _Humans_ -meets-Bradley-fantasies inspired addition)
> 
> ~Thank you for reading, and extra heapings of love to the RPF Fest Mod and community members for keeping these ships sailing! If you would prefer to comment at Livejournal, you may do so [here](http://merlinrpf.livejournal.com/203354.html).


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